


Poetry

by NimWallace



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Dark Past, Edgar Allan Poe References, Ficlet, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Inspired by Poetry, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, One Shot, Poetry, Sad Sherlock Holmes, Short, Sweet John, sorry if it sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 22:36:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16004726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimWallace/pseuds/NimWallace
Summary: In which Watson gains insight into his partner's past through poetry.





	Poetry

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Поэзия](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16314677) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



Holmes loved poetry.   
This Watson knew, because the man himself lived like a poet—he spoke of beauty and heaven evil, and so it was not a surprise to find the leather-backed volume among stacks of textbooks.   
The pages were all yellow—the tips curled, perhaps from moisture in the air—and sentences were highlighted, circled. The paper smelt of the cedar wood shelf and the tobacco Holmes smoked.  
Watson chuckled to himself, reading Holmes commentary, which was scribbled inside. The book in particular was a collection of the infamous author of mystery and horror, Edgar Allen Poe.   
He was not surprised to find passages mocking Poe's Dupin, but he was surprised to find the soft, tender passages Holmes had highlighted.   
_But we loved with a love that was more than love,  
_ This was circled in black ink, without a note beside it reading, _who does decide what love is?  
_ The doctor smiled to himself, feeling only a touch of sadness.   
_Who did decide,_ he thought, _that we are not supposed to be in love?  
_ He put the thought away and looked back to another page, where the passages of the poem “Alone” were circled;   
  
_From childhoods hour I have not been_

_As others were—_

 

And then again:  
  
 _And all I lov'd I lov'd alone_  
  
The doctor reread the poem several times, trying to see it from his companion's eyes. There were no comments beside it, simply the long circles.   
He frowned, but could make no specific insight into his lover's mind from it. There could've been a thousand reasons Holmes would highlight this passage.   
He put the book aside, and when Holmes came home later that evening (still partially incognito as a merchant) he brought it out again and sat with it in his lap as Holmes got changed back into his regular clothes.   
He could hear him bustling about their room—taking apart his costume, washing his face—  
“Sherlock,” he said as Holmes finally strode back into the parlor, swiftly bending down to kiss him on the forehead. “This is yours, isn't it?”   
Holmes looked down at what he had in his hands, and smiled faintly.   
“Ah yes, Poe. His stories are overly-fantastic, but I do occasionally indulge in his poetry.” He took the book and flipped through it fondly. Then his eyes met Watson's with a small smirk.“You have a question,” he deduced.   
“Yes,” Watson admitted. “Next to all the poems you've marked, you put comments. Except this one.”   
He opened to the page, and Holmes face fell slightly.   
“Oh, that,” he said, sounding suddenly tired. “It perhaps. . .ah, reminded me of a less. . .ingratiating part of my childhood.”   
“Oh,” Watson said softly. “Will you. . .tell me about it? I-I don't know much of your childhood.”   
“There isn't much to tell,” he replied with some exhaustion in his voice. “But this passage reminded me of those days when I had first experienced. . .attraction to. . .other men—well, boys, at that time. I was but fifteen.”   
Felling both sympathetic and eager to learn more about his friend's past, Watson pressed gently;  
“What were you thinking, when that happened? Were you scared?”   
“Very,” Holmes admitted, flushing slightly. “I-I was terrified of it, actually. I used to . . .pray, pray to God that this wouldn't happen to me.”   
“You never struck me as religious,” Watson said, brow furrowing.   
“There is a fine line between religion and desperation, my dear doctor, and I was desperate, not religious. The prayers didn't work, of course, and after a few months of trying that, I abandoned it completely.”   
Watson took his hand, stroking it gently with his thumb. Holmes looked—a bit pained, maybe sad. What a completely simple, awful thing it is to be sad.   
Holmes squeezed it gratefully.   
“It doesn't bother me much anymore,” he promised softly. “It—it was my own self hatred that hurt, far more than the constant oppression from those who suspected.”   
“Peers?” Watson asked, feeling a tinge of anger welling up.   
“Yes, and occasionally my father. Sometimes, I believed the things they said. Sometimes, I thought things much worse.”   
At this, Watson gently tugged the detective's arm, prompting him into a comforting embrace. It was the only thing he could think to do to help—to sit and be with him and listen.   
“But, as I said, I don't worry about often it anymore,” Holmes continued. “Don't look at me like that, Watson, I really don't. I stopped the first time we kissed. I knew then all my worries had been vain—that there couldn't possibly be anything wrong with that moment. It was. . .overwhelming. I believe I cried.”   
“You really lived in fear and shame,” Watson said quietly. “I'm sorry. I had no idea.” Holmes shrugged. “I don't anymore. You've fixed that. You are, in a sense—my Eulalie, rescuing me from the pain of my past, creating our own present.”   
Deeply touched, the doctor smiled. It was rare to catch such a wide glimpse of his companion's heart—to be reassured so tenderly that he the love he felt was reciprocated just as deeply.   
“Why don't I read to you?” he said finally. “Perhaps some lighter, more romantic poetry?”   
“To that, I will not protest,” Holmes smiled.   
And so the rest of the evening they basked in the beauty of both spoken and unspoken words.

 


End file.
